JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Somewhere deep inside a boy still peeks out

green forests overflowing from his eyes

 

Is the flurry of years to blame

that I have forgotten him so often?

 

Find him, find him, the wind of years commands

before decades’ gusts shake branches bare of leaves

 

Was that he, rolling in the grass down a slope

feet dangling from a log, head in some forgotten cloud?

 

Urinating six inches past the mark in the sand?

 

He, rowing under fountain’s rain, little passenger raging with delight

he, smiting a ball, carving a catapult?

 

Blow wind blow, there he is, playing poker for farthings

each coin bullion, around a pizza crumbed table in student lodgings

 

Look wind, is that not he, eulogizing companion killed by ghastly

accident, pulling phrases of praise from a shivering notebook

 

Too soon he disappears, a fallen leaf blown

into a heap of brown days

 

And who can find in autumn’s rakings

if and when the wind may glimpse him once again